


eudaimonia

by sightstone (symmetrophobic)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 02:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetrophobic/pseuds/sightstone
Summary: Eudaimonia: the state of human flourishing; being healthy and prosperous; happiness.





	eudaimonia

can be seen as a continuation to [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742894), because family!au kz won't leave my mind, and pray doting on cuzz despite cuzz barely getting to play at all this season always warms my heart \o/ ty ray for beta!!

 

highlight this sentence for trigger warning: graphic description of character death 

* * *

 

“How was the visit to the doctor’s?”

Jongin is tired. This is nothing new. Fatigue and children are a package. So are Bumhyeon and children. And Jongin and Bumhyeon have been a package since before Jongin can remember.

He’s happy.

“Okay,” he looks into the mug of coffee set out in front of him. Foam bubbles at the sides like clouds, and he wonders if he’s forgotten something. _You’ll never find someone who can deal with your attention span_ , Kyungho used to laugh. “The medicine’s on the dresser. Were meds always this expensive?”

He sneezes into a tissue. Honestly, being sick is the shittiest thing in the world. The insomnia just makes it worse.

Bumhyeon leans over behind him, arms wrapping around his neck. His voice is like cotton, warm and soft. “Get better soon. The kids are waiting.”

Jongin nods, tipping the coffee back along with a couple of painkillers, wincing when the liquid scalds his throat.

*

“How’s the slides for the meeting?”

Seohaeng peers over the top of his computer, before sinking comfortably back into the chair on the other side of his desk. Jongin grumbles indistinctly, waving as though to shoo him away. “Almost done. What do you want.”

The promotion at the start of this year’s the reason why Jongin gets his own office, now – and part of the reason why they can get a lot of other nice things. Like the quality clothes that don’t rip too easily for the four kids. The new dishwasher and washing machine that work faster and quieter so they can do the chores after the kids have gone to bed. The new white seven-seater family Toyota Sienta with the (“super cool robot!!” according to Dongha) automated sliding doors that open with the push of a button, and the remote control for the radio that Wangho always claims dominance over.

There’s not much more Jongin can ask for, to be honest. Except maybe improved health.

“Just _asking_ , sheesh,” Seohaeng rolls his eyes, but doesn’t make a move. He’s been hanging out around here a lot more recently – probably because Finance just moved to the block opposite and Seohaeng gets a clear view of their department from Jongin’s window. “Can’t I show a little concern?”

 “Concern my ass – or Dayoon’s, anyway.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Seohaeng laughs. “The view through _my_ window’s a lot better, I’ll have you know.”

“That doesn’t help your case a lot,” Jongin rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should stop creeping on him and like, you know, _ask him out_ , I don’t know.”

The other man sighs thoughtfully. Can anyone sigh thoughtfully? “Maybe.”

To himself (and only himself) Jongin wonders what it’d be like to be Seohaeng, over whom wars have been fought (anyone who needs a definition of _war_ need only look as far as his ex-boyfriend) and decides that he’d rather not know. Not getting enough sleep does things to a person – one of which is a lack of patience.

“We’re not getting any younger,” Jongin says, in classic blunt Jongin fashion. “Time to think about settling down, having kids, maybe?”

Seohaeng looks at him, expression unreadable, like he’s caught between understanding and thinking of something to say. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Jongin grins despite the exhaustion. “I’ll be your wingman. I can tell some pretty bad jokes to make you look good, I’ll have you know.”

“I’ll let you know if there are openings,” Seohaeng snorts, taking out his phone as he walks off. “Remember the slides! Tell the kids that their favourite uncle Seohaeng said hi, by the way.”

*

The house is quiet when Jongin steps out of the bathroom.

Bumhyeon’s nowhere to be seen, so he wanders cautiously into the kids’ room after taking his medication (it would be hell if any of _them_ got sick now), glancing over each bunk silently. The little dinosaur nightlight they’d gotten for Dongha a couple of years ago glows a comforting orange in the corner.

Boseong is already fast asleep on his bunk bed, so Jongin arranges the Robocar Poli blanket around him, cradling the back of the four-year-old’s head in his hand. His little feet are poking out from under the blanket, pajama pants above his ankles – kids grow so _fast_. They’re going to have to get him a new set, soon.

“Daddy?”

Jongin stands, then, chuckling gently as he arranges the blanket around Dongha on the upper bunk, who’s watching him with wide eyes. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Why did you come home so late?” The seven-year-old asks petulantly. Any more demanding, and he’d sound like Bumhyeon.

“Daddy had a lot of work. Daddy has more things to do at the office this year,” Jongin says quietly, resting a hand on Dongha’s back. “Did you do all your homework? You didn’t give Papa any problems, right?”

Dongha thinks for a moment. “Nope.”

“Good kid. You’d better go to sleep now, don’t want to be grumpy at school tomorrow,” Jongin rubs his back, before turning to the other double bunk in the room.

Wangho’s eyes are closed but he’s not sleeping, on his top bunk – Jongin can tell by the way he’s breathing. He used to get nightmares, when they’d first adopted him, and he’d climb down and sneak into Jongin and Bumhyeon’s room to curl up in a ball at the foot of their bed. He never made a sound. He always felt the need to prove himself, one way or another.

“’Night, Wangho-yah,” he says quietly, patting the boy’s back. He sees the six-year-old open one eye to peek once he takes his hand away, then quickly close it again, and chuckles.

Then he kneels by the last bunk, smiling absent-mindedly. Woochan’s watching him sleepily, blanket up to his nose, bunny doll clutched loosely to his chest.

The youngest of the four hadn’t chosen this bunk – in fact, he rarely chose anything: where he slept, where he sat at the table, which seat he got in the car. That’s the thing with having so many kids, that the quiet ones always get what’s left over, because loud ones make the noise when they don’t get what they want, and there were a _lot_ of loud ones in this family.

“How was work, Daddy?” Woochan murmurs, half into his stuffed rabbit. He’s the only one to ever ask that. It makes him sound ridiculously grown up – Jongin wonders if he’d picked it up from Bumhyeon.

Jongin sighs, reaching over to brush hair out of Woochan’s eyes fondly. “Work was okay. How was being at home today?”

“Okay,” Woochan says quietly. “We ate cookies.”

“Only cookies?”

“Sugar cookies.”

Jongin laughs, ruffling Woochan’s hair. The little boy used to wander into their room after having nightmares, but he’d stopped after Wangho laughed at him for it. Woochan snuffles into his blue rabbit, already drifting off into sleep, but not before he asks again.

“Are you getting better?”

If there’s one thing Jongin’s good at, Bumhyeon used to roll his eyes and say over dinner with Seohaeng, it’s bluffing. The man puffs out his chest and smiles bracingly. “Of course. I’m not even coughing anymore.”

It’s a lie, of course – this bug is really starting to kill him. But none of them need to know that. Especially Woochan.

He almost jumps when he feels a hand on his back. It’s Bumhyeon, features blurred in the darkness, pulling gently but insistently on his arm. “Time for bed, hyung, or you’re never going to get well at this rate.”

Jongin stands to leave, letting the weight of Bumhyeon’s hand around his anchor him.

The kids see him go, quiet, beady eyes watchful, even after Bumhyeon closes the door softly behind them.

*

The weekend means things to do. Errands to run. Places to bring the kids.

“When’s your appointment with the doctor?” Bumhyeon asks over breakfast. Wangho and Boseong are playing in their room, and they’d sent Dongha for his taekwondo classes earlier. Woochan’s not around - he's probably drawing or playing with his trucks somewhere around the house. The youngest does play with the other boys most of the time, but Dongha and Wangho always take his crayons when he’s drawing, and he doesn’t like arguing to get them back. Jongin found him on Dongha’s upper bunk, once, hiding at the far corner of the bed and drawing monster trucks on the sketch pad Bumhyeon had bought for his birthday.

“It’s getting better,” Jongin says thickly into a tissue. “It’s fine.”

He sounds like hell, he knows. He’s been trying to stay away from the kids these few weeks, but it’s only a matter of time before they catch whatever he’s down with. If only he were able to get some _sleep_ …

Bumhyeon’s biting his lip, watching him with concern. “I’ll drive you there.”

Jongin sighs, as Boseong runs over, Wangho close behind, climbing onto a chair to reach for some of the apple slices Bumhyeon had prepared. “It’s okay, I’ll take the bus.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ , Bumhyeon, I’m _sure_ ,” Jongin rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to quell the headache that’s rising. “The kids. Someone needs to take care of the kids.”

Bumhyeon doesn’t say anything after that.

Wangho and Boseong start squabbling over apple slices. The sound is jarring, even for someone so used to it, sinking bullets into Jongin’s already sore mind.

“Wangho-ah,” he says, finally turning around. “Take two apple slices and give your brother two.”

The older boy pushes out his lower lip, eyes red, before shoving the apple slices at Boseong and storming off to their room.

Bumhyeon sighs. “I’ll settle it.”

Jongin lifts Boseong onto his lap as Bumhyeon leaves, rubbing the little boy’s back tiredly. “It’s okay, Boseong-ah, your brother’s just tired today. Eat your apple slices.”

“Are you getting better, Daddy?” Woochan asks, seated on his little booster seat at the table, an apple slice clutched tightly in his right hand. He has a knack for appearing like this, out of nowhere, people would say. But Jongin always could tell when he came and went.

Woochan just never made noise. He just showed up, sometimes, quiet, curious, wide eyes watching hopefully, like a silent reminder not to forget him, like everyone else did.

Jongin made a practice out of keeping an eye on him, like an unsaid promise that he hadn’t.

“Daddy’s just a little bit sick,” Jongin laughs. ”I’ll be all better soon, just you wait.”

He looks down, sees Boseong gnawing uneasily on an apple slice as he watches him, like he’s waiting for some sort of reassurance. He’s not as easily shaken by arguments with his brothers as Wangho is, but Jongin knows it affects him.

He draws the boy closer, pats his back, the smell of apple slices and grape kids’ soap permeating the air. “You okay, Boseong-ah?”

Boseong nods, then slides off Jongin’s lap, still holding his apple slice, wandering to the room where Bumhyeon is with Wangho.

So Jongin stands, and gets ready to leave.

*

“You okay?” Seohaeng’s still watching him.

Jongin blows his nose, tossing the tissue into the already-full bin. He’s taken down the little pocket mirror from the corner of his desktop – his dark circles were starting to frighten even him.

“Should I not be?”

The older man looks like he wants to say something, then changes tack. “Hey, you were looking for some boxes for the kids’ stuff the other time right? I think they left some here after unpacking the new desktops.”

New boxes. Yeah. So they could have a somewhere to put their toys back into, so he and Bumhyeon wouldn’t have to strain his back trying to keep the toys on the shelves. He honestly hadn’t _realised_ how many toys the kids were starting to have, thanks to the multitude of doting (and single) self-proclaimed uncles and aunts they had.

Dongha wanted a box to play rocket ship in, Boseong wanted a box to (and Jongin quotes) sleep in, and Woochan wanted a toy box, Jongin remembers distantly. The boy had seen a magic one in an American children’s picture book. He’d only mentioned it once, as an afterthought. But Jongin remembered.

“Thanks,” Jongin says. “I’ll ask when Bumhyeon’s free to drop by.”

“Not driving to work anymore?”

“Bumhyeon needs the car.”

Silence hangs between them for a while. Considering how long they’ve known each other, it’s almost regrettable that Jongin can’t say anything more.

“You know,” Seohaeng hesitates. “Anytime you need to talk about – about what happened. I’m here. You know that, right?”

Jongin takes another gulp of scalding coffee. It burns down the lump in his throat. “It’s fine. Thanks. You too.”

*

The weight of the world feels like it’s resting on his ribcage as he holds Bumhyeon at night, body warmth ebbing out and trickling over his arms into the mattress.

“What’s on your mind?” The other man whispers, so he doesn’t wake the kids.

It’s difficult to respond when it would be easier to say what _isn’t_.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Bumhyeon nuzzles sleepily into his neck. It rings a bell, of a time when every inch of warmth was another reason for Jongin to stay.

Now, Jongin just feels cold.

“Come back to us,” Bumhyeon murmurs, almost like a plea.

 _Where?_ Jongin wants to ask. _I’m already here._

Except _here_ is a place he doesn’t know.

 _Here_ is the place he’s been all along, and now he’s never felt less at home.

*

The house is dark, blackness creeping in little fingers across the white floor, like hands reaching out from the corners.

Jongin stands outside the kids’ room, a blue bunny in his hand. The kids have long gone to sleep, but Woochan had left this out here. He doesn’t want to go in, in case he wakes them up, though.

He could leave the bunny out here, for Woochan in the morning, but the boy won’t get to hug it to sleep tonight. Or he could go in and put it where it belongs, but risk waking them up.

Or he could just stand here for the rest of the night. He’s so _tired._

The silence gets to him, eventually. He turns on the soft light in the kitchen and leans the rabbit carefully against the hot water flask, safely away from the hands on the floor of the living room.

Then he walks back to bed, vaguely registering the green glow of the digital clock telling him it’s five in the morning.

Just one more hour till he can leave for work. It’s not so bad.

*

_Lee Jaewan (1:08am)_  
_hyung, it’d help to understand where hes coming from_  
_you know counterfactual thinking, right?_  
_how you undo events in your head and think of how you could change something you did_

_Lee Jaewan (1:10am)_  
_the easier it is to undo something bad you did in your head_  
_the greater your regret_

_Lee Jaewan (1:15am)_  
_hyung, we’re here for u both, ok?_  
_pls talk to us_

*

Jongin hasn’t smoked a cigarette in years.

And yet, here he is.

It’s been an hour, maybe two. Half the pack is gone. So are the bottles of soju he’d brought up. Jongin shakes the cigarette pack idly, listening to the comforting rustle of pre-packaged cancer inside.

He drops a cigarette butt, crushing it against the concrete floor of the apartment roof with a ratty rubber sole, simultaneously lighting another one.

“Daddy?”

Jongin turns bleakly. Woochan’s sitting beside him, arm wrapped around his rabbit plushie. His wide eyes are watching him. “Why are you up here?”

The man smiles weakly, setting the cigarette aside. “Daddy’s tired.”

Woochan scoots closer. “Why are you tired?”

 _Why am I tired?_ Jongin’s been tired for months. It’s the sort of exhaustion that begins at rock bottom and drags you along its surface until you bruise and bleed and think of all the ways it can end.

“Are you getting better?”

Jongin’s smile feels like glass shards between his lips. He wraps a tentative arm around the boy, then, like it could keep him there forever.

“Daddy’s sorry.”

Something bitter and terrible rises at the back of Jongin’s throat, turning his chest to lead and stone, and the ground, twelve stories down, seems like the softest pillow.

“Daddy,” Woochan says, then, looking up at him, quiet and honest. “Do you miss me?”

Jongin’s voice wavers, and he smiles again, tears burning down the sides of his face. 

“All the time.”

*

Jongin sits in the driver’s seat. It’s a new car. He’d come home late from work the previous night and hadn’t been able to sleep much.

Dongha’s in the passenger side, messing around with the radio. Wangho and Woochan are behind. Bumhyeon’s gone to buy snacks for the family with Boseong. They’re parked illegally at the road shoulder.

Woochan wants to sleep. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before because of nightmares. He wants the neck pillow, but Wangho takes it from him. So he takes the cushion, shimmies over to the other side and sleeps against the side of the car.

Jongin’s watching worriedly for traffic cameras. Wangho has claimed control over the remote, and he and Dongha are fighting over music choices. Jongin tells them to keep quiet, to no effect. The noise drills into his head like nails into a wall, derailing his train of thought. He thinks he sees a traffic policemen approaching from the next street, but he can't tell - they're still too far off. 

Dongha reaches back and grabs the remote. Wangho leans forward and hits him.

Jongin turns around, telling them both sternly to sit down, and tries to pull the remote away from both of them.

It takes just a moment to get it from both of them, but he misjudges from his irritability and pulls too hard. His elbow hits one of the buttons in the panel on his right. He hears the tell-tale beep saying the sliding door is opening. He can’t close it yet, only when it’s fully open - besides, he has to discipline the two kids in front, anyway.

He forgets.

He forgets that Woochan is sleeping on the side.

A car is approaching from behind them in the next lane. The couple inside is arguing. The man turns his eyes from the road for a split second to make a point.

*

The air is still. The trees don’t move. The children are somewhere else, and so’s the couple, so’s Bumhyeon. None of this matters anymore.

This is the house Jongin visits in his head all the time when he closes his eyes. He knows this because he’d built it himself. He’d smelt it in the furnace out of regret, and burned it on the back of his eyelids until he couldn’t see anything else.

Asphalt cuts into Jongin’s legs as he kneels in the middle of the road, in front of the other car. Woochan is cradled in one arm. His little body bends and juts at odd, inhuman angles, and red streams down from the fist-sized dent in his skull, staining his tiny hand-me-down blue Pororo sweater.

He looks up at Jongin with eyes that don’t move anymore.

“Daddy,” he says, in a voice that sounds like glass shards in flesh. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

*

It’s eleven by the time Bumhyeon gets home. He dumps the bags by the door, body aching from exhaustion.

The lights are on. He hears voices. Immediately, his stomach clenches with anxiety, adrenaline kicking into his veins, pushing his body into overdrive.

Jongin’s shouting.

He sprints towards the kids’ room, heart pounding, shoving open the door.

“… _Never_ , never fucking touch it ever _again_ -…” He smells alcohol and cigarette smoke. The lights are on, casting the room in a stark white glow, and all three kids are in the room, frozen like little statues. The moment Bumhyeon enters, though, the spell seems to break.

Boseong’s the first to start crying. Wangho and Dongha follow split seconds later, all three running to him, faces burying themselves in his shirt, like everything bad would go away if they couldn’t see it.

Bumhyeon has never seen Jongin like this before. Anyone’s first instinct would be to shout back, make themselves heard, or to run.

But Bumhyeon knows better. Maybe he just saw this coming, and put off the inevitable till it crashed and burned.

“Hyung,” he says, reaching forward.

“ _Don’t_ get into this!” Jongin points at him, voice cutting through the air like an axe. There’s no hatred in his eyes, only rage. “Don’t _fucking_ get into this, get _out_ of here-…”

“Hyung, calm down,” Bumhyeon says quietly. “You’re going to hurt someone.”

The fire blinks out for one moment. It’s enough for Bumhyeon to herd the kids out of the room, leaving the door open by a crack, before quickly getting them all into main bedroom and turning the mini television on.

“Papa, why is Daddy so angry?” Dongha asks, the moment they’re in the room. Boseong hasn’t stopped crying. “Is it because we took Channie’s toys?”

“Will he hit us?” Wangho asks, wide-eyed, clutching his stuffed wolf doll for security, as Bumhyeon picks Boseong up. “Is he angry at us?”

“He’s not angry at any of you,” Bumhyeon says firmly, grabbing a tissue from the dresser top, wiping their tears away. Boseong sniffles, eventually stopping, his chin on Bumhyeon’s shoulder. “If anything, he’s just really angry at himself, okay? And he just-…” his voice trembles, by just the slightest bit. “Kept it all to himself. For a really long time.”

*

Bumhyeon leaves the kids with cartoons and yoghurt bottles, and slips into the kids’ room with a flask of warm barley water.

It takes him a heart-stopping moment to spy Jongin, sitting under the window, hidden behind the head of one of the bunk beds. There’s a blue rabbit in one of his hands.

“Hyung?”

“Sorry,” is the first word out of Jongin’s mouth. His voice sounds like someone ran his voice over sandpaper for hours. But maybe that’s just what happens when you don’t sleep properly for three weeks straight. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You should go apologise to them later.”

“Yeah.”

Bumhyeon hands him the open flask, heart easing a little when Jongin takes it.

Then he sinks to his knees beside Jongin, lips pressed together to keep them from trembling, arms wrapping around his shoulders, cheek pressing into the crown of the other man’s head.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ any of us?”

“I didn’t mean it,” Jongin repeats, voice empty.

Except he’s not referring to tonight anymore.

*

Bumhyeon remembers lifting up Boseong and running out of the store the moment he’d heard the screech of tyres exactly where their car should be.

Everyone who didn’t know enough had praised Jongin for how he acted that day, Bumhyeon remembers. How he’d gotten out immediately, pushed Wangho back into the car, reached into the back for a blanket and covered Woochan up. Everyone else had been panicking – the driver, his wife, the kids. He’d had everything together, all the way to the hospital, then when that had proved too late, through the funeral and the cremation.

He never shed a tear. That’s just the way Jongin was. And Bumhyeon had been able to pretend it’d all be okay until Jongin stopped driving, until the nightmares started, until he couldn’t sleep anymore.

*

It takes a moment. Then Jongin lets out a sob, knees drawn up to his chest, hands clenching into fists till his knuckles are white, and he cries, he cries until patches stain themselves in Bumhyeon’s sweater, until tears run down Bumhyeon’s face into Jongin’s hair.

“ _Why_ ,” the word is mutilated with emotion from Jongin, laden to the point it’s crushing, syllables shaking with every sob, “ _Fuck_ , why, _why_?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bumhyeon repeats, holding the other man tight, eyes squeezed shut. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I _forgot him_ , I promised him I would never and I – _fuck-…_ ”

“You never forgot him,” Bumhyeon says quietly. “And we never will. It’s okay.”

*

Of course, Dongha's the one who forgives the easiest. He smiles when Jongin smiles, arms automatically extending - Wangho is warier, taking a moment to warm up. Boseong’s already asleep, rolled up the blanket, clutching an empty yoghurt bottle.

“Daddy is sorry,” Jongin says, wrapping the two of them in a hug. “Daddy was really tired. I’ll buy you guys lots of seaweed, okay?”

“Prawn flavour,” Dongha asserts, still holding onto Jongin’s neck. “Can you come home earlier, then?”

“Daddy,” Wangho says then, quietly. “Maybe you should see the doctor.”

Jongin hesitates. Then he nods once, with a tired smile.

“Yeah, maybe I should.”

*

It's less than a week before Bumhyeon puts up a white shelf in the living room.

It’s got pictures of all of them, and a family picture in the middle. The kids decorate the frames, drawing things in markers and sticking plastic badges on the corners. Everyone has different ones - Wangho's has puppies and banana milk, Bumhyeon's has coffee with a heart on it and bento boxes, and Boseong's has a small sailing boat. Woochan’s picture frame has a little model train, a yoghurt bottle, Pororo stickers and a cloud in the sky.

They gather a little bag of toys the week after too, following the counsellor’s suggestions. It’s by the doorway, for when people come to visit.

“Hey, take one,” Jongin offers the bag to Seohaeng when he’s over for dinner one night. Wangho’s sitting on his lap, not-so-discreetly stealing all the sausage slices off his plate.

The other man raises a brow as he looks into the bag. “These are…Woochan’s?”

“Yeah,” Jongin picks up a weather-beaten model train and pulls out a bunch of airplane and train drawings. “We thought, you know. We wanted you guys to have something to remember him by. You’re late, by the way, thanks for rejecting Bumhyeon’s dinner requests - we already gave some to his friends and our neighbours from around the area and Jaewan took the fire engine, so you’re going to have to settle for one of these.”

Seohaeng thinks about it, before taking a drawing of a monster truck wearing roller skates. He smiles, with something that looks like reassurance, but translates a lot better into relief. “Thanks.”

*

“…and I didn’t think the client meeting was going to stretch all the way until _then_ ,” Bumhyeon complains through the phone, and Jongin chuckles, absent-mindedly clearing out his inbox. “So now I’m out for Saturday morning, and someone needs to bring Dongha to taekwondo lessons, so I was wondering if you could cab-…”

“It’s okay, I can drive,” Jongin says, skimming through an email.

There’s a pause from the other end. “Oh. Are you-…you’re sure?”

Jongin thinks about it. “Yeah. You should come back after the meeting and get some sleep.”

Another pause follows. “Okay,” Bumhyeon says, gentle warmth audible even through the phone. “Come back early tonight. Wangho brought back a drawing from kindergarten and you have about five hairs. Maybe you should use that tonic I bought, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jongin rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself.

The general sounds of the office moving out for lunchtime begin just as he ends the call, later – Hojin thunders in noisily, armed with a packed lunch.

“Seohaeng’s making a move on Dayoon,” he announces. “It’s either going to be very disgusting or very entertaining and I suggest we move fast to get front row seats.”

Jongin gets up, straightening the little blue rabbit doll tucked snugly by his coffee mug, before smiling.

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> not super satisfied with the end product but couldn't sit on this fic any longer ;; thank you for reading~
> 
> to k, a beautiful angel, who left me with a lot of questions I’m still trying to answer.  
> and to k, her brother, who should remember that his papa still loves him very much.


End file.
